Replay
by burntnorton
Summary: Stabler's neighbor has a past that comes back to haunt her - - and him.
1.

_The guy had been eyeing the girl for a few minutes when Billy approached him. _

_            "That's one nice piece of ass, isn't it?"  Billy smirked._

_            "Damn straight.  You know her?"_

_            "Want an introduction?"  The guy nodded.  "Hey, Sue.  Come here."_

_            The girl, a skinny little thing, almost anorexic looking, in jeans that hung low on the hips and a cropped sweater with the first several buttons undone, came over.  The cheap dye job had grown out a bit and there were a few centimeters of dark roots exposed in her tangled hair.  She looked a little jittery, but she had obviously done this before._

_            "Sue, this guy wants to meet you.  Why don't you say hi?"  He draped on arm around her shoulders possessively and fingered the fabric at the top of her sweater, letting his fingers graze the tops of her breasts.  She gave the stranger an empty smile and said hey.  _

_            "Hey yourself. It's very nice to meet you, Susie."  His eyes moved over her body.  "Very nice."_

_            "Sue, go back over there while we talk some business."  He slapped her backside as she turned.  _

_            "What does she do?"_

_            "Whatever I tell her."_

_            "What do you tell her to do?"_

_            "Whatever you want."_

_            The guy smiled.  "How much for the rest of the evening?"_

_            "I don't know, it's only midnight.  Let's say 250."_

_            "No way, man.  100."_

_            "200."_

_            "150."_

_            He considered.  It had been a slow evening and they were going to leave soon, anyway. "Fine.  Cash upfront."_

_            "Sure thing."  He handed him the money.  "And she'll do everything?"_

_            "Anything you want.  Just make sure she comes back in one piece.  Sue!"_

_He led her away by the arm.  As they turned the corner, he released her and touched her hair.  Despite being unkempt, it was surprisingly soft.  He picked a piece of it and smelled it.  "Nice hair," he remarked.  Then, without warning, he grabbed her by her hair and shoved her into an alley.  _

_            She stumbled, then turned to face him, backing up into the wall.  She bit her lip seductively, thinking he wanted to play some sort of game.  "Did I do something wrong?"  _

_            "Shut up."  He backhanded her across the face._

_            "Hey," she protested indignantly.  _

_            He hit her again.  "I didn't pay to hear you talk."  He backed up a little.  _

_            "I'm outta here."  She spoke shakily and moved to leave, but he had pulled a bat out from behind a pile of rubbish.  She shrank back._

_            "I don't think so, you stupid cunt.  You're going do what I tell you to do."  He grabbed her hair with his left hand and, still holding the bat in his right, dragged her towards a door at the end of the alley.  He knocked on the door with the bat. _

_Friday, February 23, 8 years later_

            Cragen stepped out of his office, his expression even more dolorous than usual.  "Olivia, Elliot.  I need to talk to you."  

            The detectives exchanged curious looks and obeyed their captain.

            "Close the door," he said without turning.  "There's a video in the VCR.  It came from the Lacey scene.  Turner asked me to investigate discreetly.  He wants to sit on it till he knows there's something to it."

            "Why would Turner want to sit on evidence in an attack on one of his own officers?"  Olivia asked.

            "Press play."__

_            Another young man opened the door, an alcohol-laced grin on his face.  "Is this it?"_

_            "Yep." He dragged her inside, then pushed her through another door into a large room where four guys were standing around drinking beer and whiskey. There were a few chairs and two tables, the larger one bare.  Music was blaring from a stereo in the corner.  "Hey, guys, meet our entertainment for the evening."  He shoved her at the guy who had opened the door, who held her arms behind her.  He smelled her deeply before licking her neck.  _

_            "Mmm.  Tastes good."  There was laughter at that._

_            Her voice squeaked when she spoke. "I don't do this shit."_

_            The first guy gripped his bat and swung at her stomach.  "No one," he swung again, a little further up, "said" he swung again at her stomach, "you could talk."  He slammed the bat into her stomach again.  She gasped for breath and slumped over, only held up by the door guy.  _

_            Bat guy held up the bat.  "Anyone else want a try at our piñata?"_

_            Three of the others took him up on his offer, concentrating their force on her upper body.  When the last one was finished, door guy released her.  She fell into a ball, gasping for breath.  There was a stabbing pain in her chest that told her she had broken ribs.  She got on her hands and knees, thinking that might be more comfortable - - it was.  She glanced up to see one of the guys, the one who hadn't beat her, holding a camcorder.  How long had he had that on?_

_            "Oh, look, the bitch is on all fours."  Bat guy leered.  He kicked her in the chest and she collapsed again.  _

_            "You know," the door guy said, "there's only one way to really break open this package."  Two of them started to drag her up.  She caught a glimpse of a knife in the hand of door guy and began to scream.  A punch in the mouth shut her up and the two guys dragged her to the table.  They bent her over it so her breasts and broken ribs were pushed painfully onto the hard surface of the table.  She managed to turn her head to the side so she could breathe, barely.  One of them held her arms down as the door guy grazed the knife tip down from her neck to her waste.  Then she felt it at her neck again, pressing more firmly into the flesh.  She let out a sob as the knife was swept down, slicing through the cheap material of her sweater.  She felt the knife tear down the seat of her jeans.  The men exclaimed over her lack of underwear.  And then . . . she yelped once more.  Then she was quiet except for a few ragged sobs.   _


	2. 

            They fast-forwarded through the redundant bits, the Captain obviously not wanting to watch the whole thing again.  The lighting was bad and the camera work jerky, but it was clear that one of the attackers was a younger Joseph Lacey.  The cop who two nights ago had been found shot in a warehouse and who was still in serious condition at the hospital.  

            Olivia spoke first.  "So that's what Turner's hiding."

            "We need to keep this quiet for now.  I'm gonna send a copy to someone I know at the FBI.  That girl's a minor; they might already have a copy.  In the meantime. . ."

            Elliot interrupted.  "Rewind the tape.  There, pause it."  The frame was a close up of the girl, the side of her face pressed against a wood table.  She had already stopped screaming, but there were tears falling out of her gray eyes, eyes that pleaded and seared even as the rest of her body had gone limp. Elliot approached the screen, one finger tracing a thin scar on her right temple, near the hairline. "That's Susan White.

She's a brunette now and she must have gained at least twenty pounds, but that's her.  Works as a paramedic in Manhattan."

            "How well do you know her?"

"She lives in my neighborhood.  Maureen babysits for her," he said briefly.  "I know her, but not well."  The expression on his face seemed to belie his words, but his superior officer chose not to notice that.

            "You and Olivia find her and talk to her.  I'll have Munch call Baltimore PD.  And I'll try to find out what I can from Turner's shop." 

Susan White's Residence, Queens 11:15 AM 

            They pulled up in front of her house.  Elliot had been inside once or twice in the three and a half years Susan had lived there, mostly to pick up Maureen when Susan had been too tied up with the baby to walk her home.  He remembered the house as bright and comfortably decorated, clean though not always neat.  A nice home for a nice little family.

            He hadn't been lying when he said he didn't know Susan well.  He liked her - - he had no reason not to.  She was always friendly and he admired the way she took care of Timothy, her brother by her imprisoned mother.  Between the mother serving 20 to life and the way she never spoke of anything that happened more than five or six years ago, he had guessed that her childhood had been less than ideal, but she seemed happy and well-adjusted, if a little reserved and awkward at times.  Both he and Kathy had been happy about the way Maureen had gotten closer to Susan in the past year.  There were worse role models.

            "Is that her car in the driveway?" Olivia asked as they stepped onto the sidewalk.  

He nodded in reply and rang the bell. 

            Olivia peered in the window.  "Nice house."  

            "Yeah, she got some kind of settlement from the State of Maryland on account of her mother getting pregnant by a prison guard."  He pressed the doorbell again.  

            "Maybe she's out for a walk."

            Elliot held up his hand and pressed his ear against the glass.  "That's Tim crying."  He shouted out a warning then, a split second later, he kicked in the door.  "Susan!  Police!"  He and Olivia did a brief room to room on the first floor, noting a bloody spot on the kitchen doorframe.   They then charged up the stairs.  A child's screams could be heard through a door blocked with a chair. Elliot threw the chair aside, but remembered to open the door slowly in case the child was near. A little boy, about three years old, stood there in footie pajamas, tears streaming down his face.

            "I want Sissy."  

            Elliot holstered his gun and picked the child up as Olivia called for backup.  


	3. 

            Once he'd calmed the child down with a puzzle, he handed him over to a uniform.  Some children got upset when big people in uniforms appeared in their home, but Tim must have been used to it from his sister's friends.  Elliot made sure the child was taking it well, and then slipped out of the room.  

            The hall was as neat and clean as the rest of the house.   Photographs lined the walls.  Susan with Tim; Susan standing with three nuns, holding a diploma; a group of men and women in paramedic uniforms; a wedding party with Susan as bridesmaid. Judging from the Susan's appearance, most were taken in the past few years and nothing was from more than seven or eight years ago.  No men appeared more than once, except for the groom in the wedding picture and a few co-workers.  

            He entered her bedroom, a large bright room decorated in yellow, green and white.  A bible and a book of Raymond Carver stories lay on the bedside table, a pair of reading glasses perched atop.  A dark blue bridesmaid dress hung on the closet door.  There were more photographs and a few prints on the wall.  One, hanging above a writing desk, was of a girl in a white Victorian dress standing in front of white drapes, a vaguely anxious expression on her face.  He looked down at the surface of the desk, which held a small pile of bills, a photograph of Timmy, and a blue notebook. 

He flipped through the pages.  It was a journal, sporadically kept for the last four years.   The last entry was dated two days prior 

"Billy called, usual reason.  He's asking for more money this time.  Must have done one speedball too many.  Still, I wonder.  Should call Vicki, or BCPD, but I can't.  Laura might be right about being afraid to let go.  Billy's calls are like a yearly ritual, connecting me to a part of my life I say I want to put behind me.  I say that, but I'm afraid if cut that last cord, I'll never see any resolution."

He closed the notebook slowly and sat in the desk chair as Olivia walked in.    

            "What does it look like downstairs?" He asked without turning around.

"It looks like whoever it was surprised her as she was coming out of the kitchen last night.  The pasta boiled over and put out the pilot light and you saw the hair and blood.  My guess is, he threatened to hurt her son so she'd go with him quietly."

"That makes sense," he said automatically.

"What's wrong?"

"Her journal," he said, holding it up, "Someone named Billy called two days ago, asked for money.  She wrote he was connected to a part of her past she wanted to forget.  It can't be a coincidence.  Do we have a timeline?"

"The next door neighbor saw Susan come out of the house with a man around 10 last night.  He was a white man, average height, light hair.  They got into a blue car."

Elliot's cell phone began buzzing.  "Stabler . . . Yeah. . . Really. . . Is there a mention of a guy named Billy?  He contacted her two days ago. . . Right.  We're on our way."  He turned to Olivia.  "Baltimore PD faxed over the police report.  It happened when she was seventeen.  Billy was her pimp.  Cragen wants us back at the station."

"What about the canvas?"

"Someone else can do it."

"Well, we have to call DSS for Timmy."

Elliot scowled.  "No.  Susan wouldn't want that."

"Elliot, we can't just . . ."  She cut herself off when the look of resolve on his face didn't waver.  "I did see a paper on the refrigerator with phone numbers for babysitters.  Laura and Eddie are the emergency contacts, so . . ."

"Let's call them."


	4. 

            Cragen greeted the detectives as they walked in the room.  "Press is all over this and Turner's flipping out."  He glanced at the child in Elliot's arms.  "Did you call Social Services for the kid?"

            "I called his godmother.  She's gonna pick him up here."

            "Elliot . . ."

            "She doesn't have any family."

            "What about her son's father?"

"He's her brother, not her son. The godparents are the only family."

"Okay, fine.  Tutuola! Take care of Timothy for a few minutes.  You two in my office."

He slammed a thick file on the desk.  "The FBI did have a copy of the video, so did the Baltimore PD.  This is the official file Baltimore faxed over.  There were six perpetrators and five left behind fluids and prints.  All six are still at large.  Until now.   Lacey's prints are a match.  Baltimore's having an arrest warrant drawn up as we speak.  I've managed to keep it quiet, buy you some time to get over there and talk to him before he lawyers up."

            Elliot flipped through the file, slowing when he got to the sketches.  Either the cop who had saved her had gotten a really good look at all six men's faces when they were running, or Susan made an unusually good witness.  "All six are still at large?"

            "Until now.  Look, we're not here to second-guess the Baltimore PD's investigation.  Fortunately, Maryland doesn't have a statute of limitations for rape."  

            "I'm sure that's a great comfort to her and her friends right now."

            "Elliot . . ." Olivia began, trying to cut off an argument.

            Cragen wasn't going to waste anytime calming his subordinate down.  "Are you gonna be able to work this case?"

            Elliot tightened his jaw, swallowed, and nodded.  "Yeah, I'll be fine."

            "Good.  Go talk to Lacey, find out who shot him.  I'll have Munch talk to the godparents about any boyfriends."

            Elliot nodded.  He pulled out the notebook. "She kept a journal, on and off. She mentions Billy calling her two days ago."

            "I've already got Baltimore PD on it."

"We should check her phone records, see if he really called from Baltimore."

"I'll take care of it.  Go to the hospital."

            A Chinese woman with short hair stopped Elliot as he and Olivia were heading out.  

            "Are you Detective Stabler?"  He nodded. "I'm Laura Gardner.  What's going on?"  she asked urgently. 

            "As far as we can tell, she was kidnapped a few hours ago.  Timmy's alright . . ."

            "This has something to do with what happened when she was 17, right?"

            Elliot nodded.  "We think so."

            "She always thought they'd come back, you know.  She was so calm about it.  She just knew."  Her face crumpled and tears leaked out of her eyes.  

            Munch was standing nearby and Elliot nodded for him to come over.  "Laura, I have to go.  Detective Munch has a few questions for you, then you can take Tim home."

            "You'll call me if something . . ."

            "I'll call you," he promised quickly, turning her over to Munch with a gesture.  

            Munch handed her a glass of water as he sat down.  He'd taken her into the interrogation room so there would be fewer distractions.  "Mrs. Gardner, how did you know Susan?"

            "We met a little over four years ago, through work.  I'm an ER nurse.  We didn't become friends until after I started dating Eddie, my husband.  They were both paramedics at the time."

            "Susan's still a paramedic, right?"

            "Oh, yeah.  My husband's a grad student now.  He'd be here, except he's at a conference,"

            "So you're all pretty tight."  Laura nodded. "How much did she tell you about her past?"

            "Eddie and I know as much as any of her friends, except maybe the nuns.  She was hitchhiking out of Baltimore and a Sister of Charity picked her up.  They're her family."  She smiled.  "She probably would have ended up hooking in New York if Sister Rose hadn't almost run her over.  Susan always says she has strange luck."  She sniffed and dabbed a tissue at her eyes.  "She maybe told me more, because I'm a woman.  She doesn't have many close female friends.  Her mom screwed her up.  Anyway, she would talk about it sometimes when she was having a hard day, couldn't sleep.  Like I said, she always thought they would come back.  One of them especially."

            He raised an eyebrow at the first bit of useful information.  "Which one?"

            "The one who hired her.  He and the cameraman were the only ones who really freaked her out.  They were the ones who really seemed to be . . . connoisseurs of that sort of thing.  She even showed me a picture once, on a really bad night."

            "Wait, she had a picture?"

            "A sketch.  Right before her mother got pregnant, she hired a lawyer and a private investigator to find her attackers.  It was right after the FBI got hold of the tape and linked it to her.  The Baltimore PD didn't express much interest in pursuing the matter, so she was gonna take it into her own hands.  But then Tim came along and she decided she needed to focus her energy on him.  But she kept the files they put together."

            "You would recognize the sketch?"  She nodded.  "Okay.  Was Susan seeing anybody?"

            "Not exactly.  She broke up with Andrew a few months ago, but she'd started hanging out with him again."

            "They were getting back together?"

            "It's hard to tell.  I know he was crazy about her, but she always stays friends with her exes."

            "Quite a skill."

            "That's the way Susan is.  Besides, she always breaks up with her boyfriends before it gets really serious."

            "How did her break up with Andrew go?"

            "It was weird.  I think Andrew is the only one who's ever told her she was full of shit. Not in so many words, but . . . Susan gets to a certain point in a relationship and tells the guy about her past and like clockwork, breaks up with him a week or so later because she claims he starts treating different.  Like spun glass. Andrew told her that if she wanted to break up, that was fine, but not to use his reaction as an excuse to avoid getting more serious.  I don't think I've ever seen her mad after a break up."

            "She was upset?"

            "She was pissed because she knew he was right.  And because she really did like him.  All the guys she's ever dated, not that there've been a lot, are really good guys, but Andrew is different."

            "And he's trying to get back with her?"

            "I think so."


	5. 

            "Girl grew up in South Baltimore, worked the streets, and ends up dating a guy from Gramercy Park. Talk about your Cinderella stories."

            Munch snorted.  "Yeah, but this girl dumped Prince Charming.  She's not a gold digger."

            "She started seeing him again."  Fin said gruffly as they climbed the steps of the large stone house.

            He pressed the doorbell.  "He was trying to win her back.  Maybe he thought shooting her rapist would do the trick."

            A tall middle-aged woman, well dressed and coifed, with dark hair and eyes, stopped at the foot of the stairs and cleared her throat.  "Excuse me officers, but what's this about shooting a rapist?"  Her accent was prep school old money, her expression proud and cool, just short of being condescending.

            Not in the mood to tolerate nosy rich women, Munch snapped, "We're on official business."

            "You're also on my front stoop.  I repeat, what's this?"

            "We need to talk to Andrew Wellington. Does he live here?" Tutuola asked neutrally.

            "Yes.  But you haven't answered my question.  I respect the police, I have several friends on the force, but I'm not about to let any of them speak to my nephew regarding an investigation unless I know what it's about.   And since this is my house and he doesn't pay rent, you'll be waiting a long time for me to allow you in if you don't tell me."

"His ex-girlfriend's been kidnapped and a man has been shot.  Is that reason enough?"  

            At Munch's words, the woman's face froze, then became inscrutable.  "Susan?"  When they nodded, she pulled a phone out of her jacket and dialed, barely looking at the numbers.  "Andrew, get home NOW."  Not waiting for a reply, she hung up then climbed the stairs.  As she unlocked the door, she spoke in the same proud tone she had used a few moments before.  "He should be here in ten minutes."  She turned in the open doorway and extended a gloved hand.  "Let's try this again. I'm Elizabeth King.  How may I help you?"

            They sat in a formal living room, tastefully decorated with what Munch suspected were real antiques.  There were several photographs scattered on tables and the mantelpiece.  He recognized a few current and former mayors, DA's, and other elected officials before he stopped looking. 

            Mrs. King handed them both glasses of water before sitting in an armchair directly across from the sofa the two detectives occupied.   She lifted a hand to touch her brown hair, as though pushing aside a stray strand.  Munch noticed that her eyes were an unusual shade of muted blue and that there was no ring on her finger

            "So, Special Victim's Unit.  Why is Susan's kidnapping a sex crime?"

            Munch answered.  "We believe it's linked to the shooting of a cop two nights ago."  

            She raised an eyebrow.  "That does not answer my question."

            "As the friend of so many people on the force and in the District Attorney's office," he nodded at picture of her with the DA and the Police Commissioner, "I'm sure you realize we can't reveal details of an ongoing investigation."

            "Really?  I am not actually friends with the DA or the Commissioner or the Mayor.  I know them socially, I cultivate their acquaintance, and I leave their pictures up to feed their egos and the egos of silly people who come to events I host.  And I had a background check done on Susan White a few months ago.  I know that Susan was a prostitute. Something happened when she was 17 that involved the police and some serious time in the hospital.  I don't know exactly what it was - - I thought it would be inappropriate for me to delve too deeply into what was obviously a very traumatic event, but let me hazard a guess.  Being as you are the special victim's unit, I'm guessing she was raped.  I read that that cop is from Maryland, so he knew her.  He was either an old associate, a client, or involved in the attack.  Number three seems the most likely.  Don't bother confirming or denying, I can see on your faces that I'm right.  Now," she stood, "Detective Munch, come into my study.  I have some information on Susan's former pimp you might find interesting."

            The study was as exquisitely decorated as the living room, though it looked much more lived in.  Wall to wall books, a desk covered with neat piles of paper and files, and more photographs, these of people he didn't recognize in less formal settings - - probably friends and family.  She went straight to a set of wooden file cabinets behind the desk.  

            "So why did you have Susan investigated?  Just curiosity, or were you getting ready for a fight?"

            "That would be very Romeo and Juliet, wouldn't it?"  She slammed shut a file door and swore something about needing a secretary.  "Susan - - what little I know of her - - always reminded me and continues to remind me of a line in Bridge of San Luis Rey.  'She lived alone and thought alone.'"

            "And how did she remind you of the Marquesa?"

            "You read Thornton Wilder.  I would have thought Kafka was more your speed."  She turned, file in hand.  "The Marquesa held the most real part of her life separate from everyone, even the person she loved.  Susan does the same, I suspect.  Anyway, I needed to be sure that in that most real part of her life, she wasn't a sociopath.  I had my investigator do a quick check.  I only needed details about potential problems.  Billy was the only one. He tried to blackmail her and in my experience blackmailers, particularly stupid ones, just don't know when to quit.  I felt I should be prepared for the inevitable."

            "What about the rest of it?  Did it bother you that your nephew's girlfriend used to be a hooker?"

            She sighed.  "Of course.  I like her, I hate to think of everything she must have suffered, is suffering. I liked that she was dating Andrew.  She has real substance.  The way she dealt with Billy . . ..  He could not stop telling my investigator how much he HATED the woman." 

"So what you're saying is we should consider him a suspect."

"Well, I would hope you already are.  But you should also consider the fact that

he's a box of rocks.  He lacks the intelligence or imagination to conceive and execute a kidnapping in broad daylight.  That would require an attention span of longer than a commercial break. But that's just my opinion."

Munch nodded and flipped through the file.  "Very interesting.  You don't mind if

we draw our own conclusions, do you?  We like to go through the motions." 

"If you feel you have the time."  A door opened and shut.  "Andrew's back and I think Detective Tutuola has had ample time to conduct a cursory search.  Shall we?"

Andrew was a tall well-built young man in his early twenties.  His red hair needed a trim, hanging over eyebrows under his thin-rimmed glasses.  He looked the part of a preppy college student, complete with fleece pullover and beige corduroy trousers.  He glanced apprehensively at the two strangers standing in his aunt's living room.

"What happened?"

"Andrew, you should sit."  Elizabeth said quietly.

He did, in a chair by the door.  "What happened?"

Munch broke the news.  The young man stood, then sat. He took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, like he was trying to stop the tears.

"She . . . Kidnapped?  No, that's just not . . . When?  Who?"

"This morning and we don't know."  Munch said., glancing at Elizabeth who looked back helplessly.

Tutuola took his turn.  "WE understand you and Susan were seeing each other again."

"What?  Yeah, sort of. We ran into each other at a club a few weeks ago.  We've had lunch, dinner a few times since then.  We last saw each other Sunday."

"You parted on good terms?"

He nodded, distracted.  "Yeah, we were going to the theater tomorrow.  What about Tim?"

"Whoever took Susan left him.  He's with Laura Gardner."

"I should call her . . ." He stood again and moved towards the phone.

Munch stopped him.  "We have a few questions first."  Andrew nodded and sat on the sofa this time.

Munch asked first.  "Where were you Wednesday and Thursday nights?"

"Wednesday I was at a study room at Columbia until 2 in the morning with my study group. Last night I was here with my stepsister and her friends.  I was helping them with a lab report."

"And this morning?"

"I T.A.'ed a class at 8:30, then I had a seminar.  I went to the diner a few blocks away around 1, ran into my aunt.  Why is this important?"

"Just routine," Tutuola answered shortly.  

"Laura Gardner indicated that you weren't very happy with the breakup."

"I wasn't.  She made up a stupid reason to dump me."

"She didn't like the way you reacted when she told you about her past."

"I don't think she would have liked any reaction.  If I had taken it all in stride, I would have been an insensitive asshole.  I show that what she suffered upsets me, I'm patronizing her."   His voice was hurried, impatient.

"And you told her your opinion of her reasons at the time?"

"Yes.  I . . . dated her for five months.  I ask her to come home with me for Thanksgiving, she breaks up with me.  She got scared.  I told her it was her decision, but that I wasn't buying the excuse.  She was upset, because my arguing with her proved her wrong."

Tutuola raised an eyebrow.  "She told you that?"

He glared at the officer.  "I inferred it.  You're wasting time with this bullshit."

"Andrew . . ." his aunt began sharply.

"What? Susan's God knows where and they want to ask stupid questions about a breakup?  Of course I wasn't happy with it, of course I thought her reasoning was flawed, and of COURSE I wanted to get back together with her."

Fin didn't flinch.  "How far were you willing to go to do that?"

"What?"  He almost shouted.

Elizabeth cut him off sharply.  "Detective Tutuola, I might decide a lawyer's in order."

"What my partner means is when she told you about the rape, did you decide to do a little checking on your own?  Maybe call up the family lawyer, have him check into it?"  Munch shot Elizabeth what was meant to be a quelling glance.  He had a feeling she didn't want her nephew to know about her own activities along those lines.  The slight stiffening of her expression told him he was right.

Andrew clenched his jaw. "It crossed my mind.  But I decided not to."

"And miss the opportunity to be her knight in shining armor?"

"Susan would have taken it as an invasion of privacy.  She might have welcomed the results, but she wouldn't have ever trusted me again."

"And if she asked?"

"In a second."

"One more question," Munch rose. "Did you notice anything, anything unusual?  She was upset, she thought someone was following her, whatever."

Andrew closed his eyes.  "Well, two Wednesday's ago, the . . . 2nd, I guess, I was at her place and Billy calls.  She listens to him for about two minutes, then hangs up.  I tried to get her to call the police, or at least his parole officer..  She said she didn't want the hassle and as long as he stayed on his side of the state line, she didn't really give shit."

"She didn't tell anyone else about this?"

"She wouldn't have told anyone if I hadn't been there.  He calls a couple times a year. She doesn't like causing a fuss."

"You don't know what they talked about, whether he called again?"

"No.  It really didn't seem to affect her that much..  But then, she's good at hiding her emotions . . ."  He started crying. His aunt sat beside him and hugged him.

Munch cleared his throat.  "We'll let ourselves out."

She nodded.  "My card's by the door.  Call me if you need anything.  And I do mean anything."


	6. 

            Elliot and Olivia entered the hospital room without knocking. 

            "Joseph Lacey?" Olivia asked neutrally.

            A dark haired man who would have been handsome but for the hospital pallor and pain tightened features turned his head from the window to face them.  "That's me."

            "I'm Olivia Benson, this is Detective Stabler.  We're with the Special Victim's Unit."

            Lacey swallowed hard.  "Sp-special victim's unit?"

            Olivia continued as though he hadn't spoken.  "Mister Lacey," Mister, not Officer.  Lacey caught that nuance right away.  "We found a videotape at the crime scene.  It depicted the gang rape of a 17-year-old girl.  You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

            "I . . . No."

            "Do we look like idiots to you?"  Elliot asked quietly.

            "Umm, no."

            He took a photograph of Susan with her brother out of the file he'd had the foresight to bring along.  "This is Susan White.  Recognize her?"

            Lacey's face froze and what little color was left drained out of it.  He shook his head.

            Elliot yanked the bedside tray so it was over the bed, blocking Lacey in.  He placed the recent picture on it.  "Well, it has been a long time.  What about this one?"  He placed a picture taken in the hospital after the attack.  Susan with bleach blond hair, barely any flesh on her bones. He lay another, similar one, down.  "Or this one?  Don't tell me you don't recognize this one."  He threw down a still from the video, full facial shot, Lacey swinging a bat. 

            Lacey gagged.  Olivia handed him a blue basin just in time.  Elliot looked away in disgust, then pulled a chair beside the bed.  He leaned in close and spoke.

            "Susan White was kidnapped today.  I know Susan, she's a friend.  You're the only lead we have.  I suggest you tell me what you were doing in that warehouse, who shot you, why, and where we can find him.  And don't give me that bullshit story you've fed everyone else."

"I think I should maybe talk to a lawyer."

"We don't have time . . ."  Olivia put a hand on Elliot's shoulder, signaling for him to be

quiet.

She spoke more calmly.  "Lacey, you're going down for this no matter what you do.  Baltimore PD is swearing out a warrant as we speak.  You'll be in custody within 48 hours, I guarantee it.  If you're hoping to duck prosecution by holding out long enough for your friend to kill her, you're dreaming.  I've seen the evidence.  They don't need her to convict."

Elliot, more in control now, added.  "Now MAYBE you'll be able to mitigate your sentence if you cooperate.."

He started sobbing.

"Are you crying?"  Elliot demanded.  "Are you CRYING?"

"It was so long ago, I was stupid, I never . . . I've never done anything like that again.  It makes me sick,  I even became a cop . . ."

"So what?  Susan became a paramedic and she didn't need to destroy someone's life to make that decision."

"I know she is . . ."

Olivia interrupted, "You KNOW she's a paramedic?  You've had contact with her."

"Yes . . . I mean no.  I mean. . . ."

Elliot  cut him off.  "Start meaning something now."

"I saw her about six weeks ago.  She didn't see me.  I tracked her down. I was scared that she would find out."

"Who did you tell?"

"I tracked down her pimp, he told me her name, where she lived.  Then . . ."

"Then what?"

"He said he'd kill me.  My wife.  You don't understand, he's a monster."

"Who?  One of your friends."

"The rest of us were just in it for a thrill, this guy really loves it, it's a way of life for him.  My wife . . ."

It was Olivia's turn.  "We can protect your wife.  Whoever he is has Susan.  You claim to regret what you did, but you're going to let it happen to her again, except this time she might not get so lucky."

"John Ralston."

Elliot lay out stills from the movie, each featuring a different assailant.  "Which one?"  

Lacey pointed at a handsome blonde guy shown in profile, the only one without a good face shot.

"When did you call him?"

"I called him a little over a month ago to ask about the pimp. I called a week and a half ago about Susan."  

"Why'd you call him?"

"I was scared, I didn't know what to do."

Elliot snorted.  "So you call the psychopath?"

"Why did he shoot you?"  Olivia asked.

"He said he wanted to do a sequel. Finish it. I didn't want to, he shot me and left the videotape so everyone would find out.  He said if I said anything, he'd do my wife."

"Was he alone?"

"Billy . . . the pimp . . . he was there.  I don't know why, he was high or something. He really hates that girl."

Elliot leaned over.  "This is very important.  Where is Ralston?"

"I don't know."

"Not a good answer."

"I don't know.  He's probably using an alias.  He mentioned a warehouse.  He likes the big rooms for his films."

"Films?"

"Extreme porn. I told you, it's a way of life for him.  Susan's special because she was his first. He's probably planning to take a long time with her."

"You better pray we find her alive."

"I am sorry."

They ignored him as they walked out.  

"I really am!"

"Elliot, you need to take it down a notch.  I thought you were gonna lose it in there."

"We got what we needed, didn't we?" he snapped.  "We don't have time to dick around." 

"We'll find her."

"Yeah, sure." 

Cragen walked in.  "I got an FBI report back on John Ralston.  They never connected him to Susan, but suffice it say, no one was shocked.  He has a series of aliases, no clear pattern in them.  They've never been able to collect sufficient evidence to indict. Now, I'm having warehouse rentals checked, but we have got to narrow this down."

Elliot shook his head.  "If the FBI is in on this, he's a national player.  What if he took her out of state?  Car, boat . . ."

"I'm having that checked, but he probably kept her in the city.  It's less risky that way and God knows there's no shortage of warehouses."

Munch leaned back in his chair. "We should look for Billy Maze.  Can't think his way out of a wet paper bag, couldn't cover his tracks if he were running on water."

"We know he was at the shooting."  Olivia said.

"And he would want to be in on anything done to Susan.  The boyfriend's aunt had a PI do a discreet inquiry.  She gave me the dossier on Billy.  He got out of prison and came to New York four years ago, tries to blackmail her.  She calls his bluff and he tells her boss, who was a Golden Gloves.  Billy's on the next bus to Baltimore minus a few teeth and when he arrives, he's greeted by his parole officer who became VERY friendly with Susan.  There's a 20 page transcript here of a conversation where all he does is describe his hatred for this woman."

"Okay, you're on it."


	7. 

_4:00 AM_

Elliot was taking a break from the phone calls, paging through Susan's journal.  One line caught his eye.  "Every second feels like borrowed time," he read aloud.  Olivia turned, an inquiring look on her face.  "She knew, Olivia, she knew.  She was so certain that they would come back and finish what they started and she didn't think anyone could help.  But she went on.  You don't know her.  She's just such a good person, a good mother, hard working, compassionate, and she tries so hard.  And all the time, she carried that.  I won't bee able  to face myself if . . .

Munch slammed down the phone.  "I found Billy."

Elliot forgot to end his sentence.  "Where is he?"

"Oh, he's sporting a toe tag in the Bronx morgue.  Guess where they found him.  Right near dozens of vacant warehouses owned by the Wexholm Property Company. "

_            Later, much later, when they had taken a break, she realized that they were no longer holding her down on the table. She didn't care.  She just stayed like that, the edge of the table digging into her stomach, her head resting on her left ear.  They were talking.  Suddenly, bat guy's voice rose above the others._

_            "Hey, look what I found while I was taking a leak."  The other guys were silent, then someone started to laugh.  "What do you think we should do with it?"  More laughter.  Bat guy came up and leaned over so he was on eye level with her.  A cigarette dangled from his lips.  He held up a broom handle.  "What do you think we should do with it, babe?"  She closed her eyes and sobbed, tears leaking out and forming a puddle on the wood.  Bat guy laughed and stood.  _

_            Door guy broke in.  "I think we should sample the rest of the equipment first."  _

_            "You're right."  Bat guy leaned over again and smiled.  "Sounds nice, doesn't it honey?"  He took a last drag on his cigarette and stubbed it out on her shoulder.  She flinched at the pain.  "Turn her over."_

_"Hey, what's going on?"  A new male voice came from the door.  _

_            "Who the hell are you?"  Bat guy stood and turned._

_            "Come on, don't be so selfish."_

_            "Mind your own business."_

_            She heard the click of a gun.  "I really can't do that.  See, I'm a cop.  And I have backup on the way.  Get down on your knees.  Don't think. Do it!"_

_There was a lot of swearing then a lot of running towards another door on the opposite side of the room.  She had thought it was a closet or something, but apparently it was another exit.  A shot was fired and she sank down to the floor.  Several more shots, running, shouting moving away and away and then disappearing.  She started to crawl away from the table, not really sure where else there was to go._


	8. 

There was only one perpetrator present at that final moment.  They would find out later that there had been more, random men brought in for a few scenes, but sent away so that Ralston could shoot the final one himself.  And judging from the knife lying on the table by her head, the scene was to be final in more ways than one.  They took him by surprise, literally in flagrante.  Susan lay naked on a wood table, hands tied down, with Ralston between her legs, smiling a terrible mocking smile.  Susan's head was turned to the side of the room Elliot approached from.  Her eyes widened when she saw him, then she turned her head so that she could spit at her attackers face.  Her legs clamped around Joel's hips, preventing him from running when the cacophony of police orders began.  

Elliot wanted to tell her to let go, but he didn't get the chance.  Ralston grabbed her torso and threw her, pulling free as the table tipped to his right, Susan's arms still spread eagled on it.  Ralston made a futile attempt to run - - without a hostage, no fewer than a dozen armed officers felt no compunctions about jumping him.  

Elliot left them to it, rushing to Susan.  She was only semiconscious when he cut her free, and she automatically curled into as close an approximation of a fetal position as her injured body could manage.  He only glimpsed the injuries - - bruises, lacerations, burns - - as he covered her with his coat and pushed the table out of the way.  Soon enough, she would be examined, prodded, photographed, and scraped.  Unavoidable indignities that he didn't need to add to by staring at her now.

She started at the touch of his coat and began sobbing - - long, wailing, animal- like sobs.. She tried to move away, but he held her in place.

"It's me, Susan.  Elliot Stabler.  You're alright, now, you're safe.  You're safe."

She thrashed her head weakly from side to side.  "No, please, no."  Then she stopped, her eyes focused on his face.  "Elliot?"  He nodded.  "Timmy, he's alright?  He said, he said . . ."

"Don't worry, Tim's with Laura and Eddie."

She closed her eyes in relief, then reopened them, glance darting around the room.  "There are so many people. . . I can't  . . . Make them go . . . I can't . . I can't. . . Please make them go!"  She covered her eyes with a hand, continuing to mumble disjointedly.

Elliot called out for everyone to move away.  Olivia was the only one not to withdraw, instead bringing him a blanket.  As he covered the shivering woman, Olivia whispered..

Elliot whispered,  "Susan, everyone's gone.  Is it alright if Olivia stays here?  She's my partner."

Susan pulled her hand away from her eyes and nodded.  "I'm sorry. . You have him right?  He didn't get away."  Elliot shook his head.  "Oh, thank God."  She moaned in pain.

Elliot waited helplessly a few moments, then spoke gently.  "We have to get you to a hospital,"

"No, no . . . More people . . . I can't."

"You're hurt.  You have to go."

"I know, I know.  You'll come with me?

He glanced at Olivia. "Sure.  Are you ready for them to come in?"

"Okay.  Timmy's with Laura?"

"Yeah."


	9. 

_She couldn't fall asleep in her bed.  Not with Billy laying there beside her, out cold with an arm around her waist.  She had asked, weakly, for him to sleep on the couch, or at least to let her sleep there.  But he had insisted and she had given in because what difference did it make anyway?  Regardless, after a couple of mornings of breakfast in bed, he was going to start telling her to get dressed to go out.  And regardless, he was going to keep touching her like every inch of her body was his personal possession.  She hated it, hated every time he touched her hair, every time he wrapped an arm around her waist and kissed her, hated the smell of him next to her.  But others had been much worse.  Much, much worse._

_            She turned on her side to stare out the window.  At least it faced the street, so that she could see something other than the brick wall of the next building.  Tears came unbidden.  From the physical pain, she told herself.  Everything still hurt, even a week later.  She still couldn't walk straight and she still couldn't eat very much without vomiting.  She should try to get back to the hospital, get some real medicine.  But there was no way to hide it from Billy.  She'd just have to settle for the free clinic, where they wouldn't give out anything stronger than Tylenol unless you were dying._

_            As she looked out the window and listened to the sounds from the street, her mind wandered from her pain.  The problem wasn't the pain, it would go away.  And everything would be back to normal.  That was the problem.  Normal, normal just sucked.  And there was no getting away from it.  Not ever.  She knew exactly where her life was heading.  More of the same, prison, death, a series of loser boyfriends, and maybe a few kids.  Her life would look just like her mother's and just like her own had been up to this point.  And there was nothing for it.  She didn't need some cop or social worker scolding her about it.  She knew better than them.  And she knew their solutions for what they were.  So fuck them._

_            And then she thought of the tape.  Whoever it was had not only gotten away, which she had expected, but they had a tape of everything.  It was one thing for what happened to have happened.  She hadn't lied when she said this wasn't the first time and she could live with it like she lived with everything else.  But they had a tape.  A tape they could show anyone, a tape they could watch and re-watch, a tape they might be watching right now. _

_            The tears came harder and she struggled not to sob, because it hurt and because it would wake up Billy.  And then he'd just try to comfort her by touching her.  She wished he'd let her sleep on the sofa._

_Sunday, 2:00 PM_

            Susan turned her face to the door when she heard the knock.  The room was decorated in the same sterile style all hospitals shared, but at least she had it to herself.  The shades were drawn, softening the harsh lines of hospital furniture.

            "Come in."

            Elliot stepped in, followed by Munch.  "Hey, Susan.  How are you feeling?"  She looked terrible, of course.  There were only a few marks on her face; Ralston had wanted to keep her pretty for the camera until the end.  But the rest of her body . . . he had read the medical report and could only think of one or two cases where the victim had been that abused and lived.  

            She shrugged.  "I get all the dope I want, so that's a plus."

            "Susan, this is Detective Munch."

            "What happened to the other one, Olivia something?"

            "She's on vacation.  If you'd prefer to talk to a woman . . ."

            "No, that's alright.  I'd really rather talk to you, except  . . ."

            "What is it?"

            "Can I talk to you alone for a minute?"  She glanced apprehensively at Munch, as though expecting him to veto the idea.  

            "I'm thirsty, I'm gonna go get a drink," Munch said with characteristic dryness.  

            When he had gone, closing the door behind him, Elliot sat on a chair by the bed.  Susan moved to grasp the bed's controls, then winced with pain. He took the small box and handed it to her.  When she had adjusted the bed until she was in a nearly upright sitting position, she spoke.

            "In all the . . . fuss, I never got a chance to thank you."  She waved his denials away.  "No, let me.  You saved my life.  I thought . . . no, I knew that I was going to die, and then I saw you.  I've always had the strangest luck."

            "I wouldn't call that luck.  It's my job."

            "Yeah, it is."  She looked down at the sheets. When she looked up, there was a nervous, guilty expression in her eyes.  "I'm so sorry."

            "What?"

            "I always knew that he would come back, somehow.  But I never thought he would come to my home, I never let myself think it.  If I had, I swear I would never have let Maureen stay there alone.  But I should have known and . .  ."

            "I can't listen to this.  No, Susan, you have nothing to be sorry about.  It crossed my mind that Maureen could have been there, but. . . . I used to think that it was good thing you were in Maureen's life.  Now I'm sure.  If Maureen ends up with just half your courage and integrity and compassion, I'll be proud.  So don't be sorry.  Any danger wasn't your fault and more than that, you're being my daughter's life has been a gift."

            "Now you have to stop, because you're going to make me cry."  It was too late, really.  She dabbed her eyes.  "My eyes are gonna swell shut if I keep doing this.  I guess Maureen knows."

            "It was in the paper, so . . . She wants to come visit you."

            "That'd be nice.  Maybe in a day or two?  I'll be in a little better . . ."  She bit her lip and closed her eyes, tears spilling over.  "Timmy came to see me..  he was so confused and scared.  I tried to . . . but I can't move anything without it hurting.  They put cigarettes out in my. . . It's not fair."

            He put a comforting hand on her shoulder.  "If you're not up to it, there's no rush.  We have the video and everything."

            "Oh, God, the video.  How could anyone find THIS entertaining."  She sniffed, then straightened, composing her face as best she could.  "I want to get the first interview over with, okay?  Go get your partner."

            After getting a drink at the water fountain, Munch sat down across from Susan's room and picked up a three-month-old Newsweek with most of the pages missing.  Instead of reading it though, he examined his surroundings.  The ward was moderately busy, consisting of several, mostly double occupancy rooms.  A young nurse smiled pleasantly at him as she walked past.  His gaze followed her down the hall.  That was how he happened to see Elizabeth King, looking particularly regal in a gray wrap and narrow, calf-length green skirt, speaking to a man in a brown suit that exuded the faintly superfluous aura of a hospital administrator.  She seemed to be giving him some last instructions.  She gestured in the direction of Susan's room, then happened to glance towards it, her expression freezing briefly when her eyes met his.  Before he could do anything, the hospital  room door opened.

            "John, come on."

            When he looked back at Elizabeth King, her face was turned away from him.  Slowly, he stood and followed his colleague back into the room.   


	10. Epilogue

            A faint look of annoyance changed quickly to a surprisingly warm and sincere smile when Elizabeth King opened the door.  She was dressed in what Munch suspected was her version of lounging around clothes: pressed, pleated khakis, blue blouse of some fine, soft material, and brown suede slip-on shoes.  She wore no jewelry, little noticeable makeup, and her hair was pulled back in a low ponytail.  

            "I hope I'm not disturbing you," he said, more out of politeness than sincerity.

            She shook her head and motioned him in.  "Of course not.  You caught me on a rare night home alone.  I was just sorting my pictures and too much nostalgia is not a good thing at my age."  She began to lead him up the stairs.

            "You're not taking me into the throne room again, are you?" he quipped amiably.

            She laughed, a low, musical sound that he could have listened to all evening.  Stop it Munch, he thought to himself severely.  She was most definitely out of his league, or at least she would certainly think so.  

            "Not unless this is a professional call."

            "Purely personal."

            "In that case, I'm taking you into my _real_ living room."

            She lead him into a room that was more casually, but no less exquisitely, decorated than the other rooms he had seen.  A large brown sofa was nearly covered with pictures and albums.  A bottle of wine and half-full glass stood on the coffee table.  She gestured for him to sit in the red armchair adjacent to the sofa.  

            "Can I get you a drink?"

            "No, thanks."

            She shrugged and sat.  For the first time that evening, he noticed the music.

            "Miles Davis?"  She nodded as she sipped her wine.  "I would have pegged you as more of a Mozart gal," he observed dryly.

            She laughed again.  "They're not so different.  My husband got me into jazz."  When she noticed his puzzled glance at her ring-less left hand, her mouth twisted into a half smile.  "I'm a widowed divorcee of many years standing.  But that's not what you came to talk about."

            He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.  "I saw you at the hospital today."

            She took another sip of her wine, emptying the glass, but did not respond.

            He tried another tack.  "It's a lucky thing Susan has a single room."

            "How did you find Susan?"  she asked evenly as she poured another glass of wine.

            "She's in bad shape but unusually lucid.  She has a photographic memory you know."

            "How fortunate."

            "Yeah.  I kept thinking back to what you said about her. She has real substance.  And strength."

            "She's certainly proved herself strong enough to survive this sort of thing before."   The bitterness in her voice was, like all honest bitterness, mixed with equal parts anger and sadness.  She continued sharply.  "Detective, I'm not a suspect for you to cajole into confession.  Ask me a question and I'll answer it honestly."

            "Did you have anything to do with Susan getting a private room?"

            "Neither health insurance companies nor hospital administrators are known for their generosity.  When I found out what hospital she was in, I took the necessary steps."

            "Expensive gift.  Did your nephew ask you to do it?"

            "My nephew is young, in love, and very upset.  It wouldn't occur to him to ask.  My mother told me that the perfect gift was not only thoughtful, but also unobtrusive.  Susan and her friends won't expend much energy think about the private room since she has one, but if she didn't, she'd feel the lack of it keenly, I imagine.  I trust you won't tell anyone of this, will you?  It would only embarrass her and me needlessly."

            He nodded.  "You know, I don't think Susan's the only woman of substance I've met today."

            "I'm over fifty, I have a lot of practice."

            "Mrs. King, are you hungry?"

            "It's Elizabeth, and yes."


End file.
